


Salt of The Earth

by NorthChill



Series: The Element Series [2]
Category: Lost Boys (Movies), The Lost Boys (1987)
Genre: Being a vampire in love sucks, Implied/Referenced One Sided Incest, M/M, Or Does It, Tribe!verse, Vampire Alan, Vampire Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-27
Updated: 2017-03-27
Packaged: 2018-10-11 18:35:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10471425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorthChill/pseuds/NorthChill
Summary: Maybe this is what love is.





	

**Author's Note:**

> 2011!fic reupload. Edited.

__

 

Sam could really get used to this flying thing.

 

He’s lain out on Edgar’s shed, hands resting beneath his head, and is staring out at the velvet black above. Occasionally, he directs his stare to the trailer opposite. The lights are on, and he can see the blurred shape of Edgar moving within...most possibly doing _Edgar_ things.

 

He could just knock on the door. You know, turn up with a fruit basket, invite himself in and enquire about the family. Watch the game together. Share a beer.

 

Edgar rarely drinks beer. He can’t stand the superficial world of sports. So, you know, to Sam that would be cool. His friend watches Cartoon Network and drinks a personalised cocktail of holy water, garlic, and raw eggs.

 

Sam just doesn’t see the point of the eggs.

 

They would still have the fruit basket. And the ability to talk about everything. About old times.

 

He’s popped in a few times these last few months, when his diversions work and on rare occasions when Edgar runs out of salt. He’s watched over Edgar as he slept. Feathered his cheek with the cool crashes of optional breath, and left light, teasing touches on his skin. He’s always tempted to go further...always, always, always...but he never does.

 

Alan hates it.

 

Attacking a master vampire wasn’t exactly the sharpest thing to do, even more so as he was still very much a fledgling in comparison to Alan’s impressive undead portfolio, but he’d made a worthwhile effort. He’d crashed Alan into his beloved car, twisted his window wiper around like a makeshift knuckle duster and smashed half his face with it.

 

It was an annoyance that vampires heal so quickly, so any potential victory was short-lived. Even more annoying was the fact Alan had gotten horrendously close to ending his life, if Sam hadn’t swooped out into the elements at the last possible moment.

 

Alan’s blood had dribbled down his temple, clotting the dark mat of his hair, and why the hell was he recalling this he doesn’t...

 

Inside, his hunger whines; Edgar’s blood, so sweet and fragile, wheedles through the darkness and tugs at his senses.

 

So tempting. But he has never slipped a taste of Edgar’s blood, not even squeezed a drop from his finger, because desires are dangerous, and Sam’s desire for Edgar is beyond any hunger imaginable.

 

He takes to the air.

 

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

Sam discovers a good looking surfer wandering home.

 

“Hey, man...” He’s slurred with drink and his eyes batter in an effort to keep himself awake. “Do you have the time?”

 

“Sure, bud,” Sam points to an invisible wristwatch, and the surfer’s brow furrows with confusion at this perplexing fact. “It’s your time.”

 

“My time for what?”

 

Sam smirks, exhibiting white teeth.

 

“Time of your life, bud.”

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

_It’s Halloween at the Emersons._

_The Frogs don’t celebrate Halloween. Especially Edgar, who crosses his arms in sickened defiance at the playfully leering pumpkins and orange fairy lights and paper ghosts stuck to the windows. Alan had sneered at the macabre frivolities, until Lucy had offered him a chocolate biscuit shaped like a witch, and now he stood munching in contemplative quiet._

_Edgar observes him in fascinated disgust._

_“My own brother,” he laments, slinking away from the kitchen and into the open porch, where Sam is hanging black cat streamers from the wind chimes. “Weakened by the dark side so easily.”_

_“Cheer up, bud,” Sam chirps, securing a plastic zombie head to the end of the porch. They have everything...zombies, witches, werewolves, black cats, ghosts, ghouls...but absolutely no vampires. “This is supposed to be fun.”_

_“There is nothing fun...” Edgar extends his arms dramatically. “About glorifying evil.”_

_“Yeah, yeah,” Sam steps down from his small stepladder, and pulls an old bin liner from below the porch. He wraps it around his shoulders, baring his blunted teeth at a less than impressed Edgar. “Hey, what do you think? A new look for me, huh?”_

_Edgar’s eyes narrow considerably. His lip curling, he leans against the miniature banister and frowns in distaste._

_“I find that personally offensive, Sam.”_

_Sam’s face crumbles. He loosens the bag from around his shoulder, pouting._

_“Oh c’mon man, it was just some fun!”_

_“Speaking of which,” Edgar’s expression is still stony, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “That bin bag is the most tasteful thing you’ve worn all year.”_

_In the darkness, Sam’s eyes sparkle._

_“Ohhhh, Rambo, you are so dead for that...”_

_“Oh yeah,” Edgar rises to his full height, and Sam sees the budding lines of muscle press through his t-shirt. His eyes however, are gentle. “You can’t take me.”_

_“The hell I can...”_

_Sam is on Edgar in a second, backing him into the corner, and Edgar, bemused, lightly wrestles him._

_“As if you have a chance in hell, mallrat...”_

_“Military Mongoose.”_

_“What the fuck, Sam? Military mongoose...?”_

_Sam smirks, and throws himself forward, crashing into Edgar and sending them reeling to the side of the porch, where Sam slams Edgar against the wall. For a moment, Edgar is stunned by Sam’s speed...and then he freezes, quelled by the feel of Sam’s warm lips latched to his neck._

_“Sam...” He crushes his fingers into Sam’s shirt. “What are you doing?”_

_“I’m...” Sam is half muffled by his attentions to Edgar’s neck. “I’m sucking your bloooood.”_

_“Right...” Edgar’s biting reply is stalled by Sam’s mouth nipping his skin, and he jumps at the feeling of a tongue prodding his jugular._

_“Sam...” He’s breathless; Sam lips quirk against Edgar’s neck. “I am so close to throwing your ass in front of a damn mirror...S-Sam...”_

_Sam’s hands have wandered down, coming to rest on Edgar’s hip, and his friend shivers slightly from the warm breath on his jaw and the circling motion of teasing fingers._

_“What’s going on here?”_

_Alan is leaning against the door, wiping cookie crumbs from his mouth. He is threatening one of his famous sneers, and quirks both eyebrows as Sam releases his estranged brother._

_“Just practicing, in case of vamp attack,” he says flippantly, appraising Edgar’s budding hickey with an accomplished air. “As you guys say...anytime could be a bad time.”_

_“You could have warned me, Sam,” Edgar is trying to push his back through the wall at this point; cheeks screaming scarlet, and he yanks his collar over the blossoming love bite. “Seriously, what the...”_

_“Oh...” Sam glances at Edgar, eyes all a twinkle. “So it wasn’t practice, then?”_

_Edgar blinks at Sam, before his jaw tightens, and he brushes past him, towards his brother._

_“Yeah,” he grunts, squaring his shoulders. “It was only practice.”_

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

Sam doesn’t find Alan, but he finds his car.

 

It’s brand new. Typical Alan. Always taking a bargain when he sees it; the price of this one had been to rip apart its wealthy owner.

 

It’s a black Ferrari F430, and damn, you could style your hair in its shine. Not that he would know much about that, all things considered.

 

It’s parked in a dark back street. Above Sam, street lamps stammer and wilt. He hears feminine laughter drift down an alley, and Sam doesn’t have the patience to check it is Alan entertaining, or Alan feeding, or Alan fucking...really, he doesn’t care.

 

Alan isn’t exactly his favourite person at the moment.

 

He peers at the car, taking in its beautiful sheen, and he rubs his chin in thought.

 

He violently kicks the door.

 

The alarm blares into the night, and Sam takes off so quickly he’s almost knocked back by his own momentum.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

Sam retreats back to Edgar, as he does every night. Luna Bay isn’t that bad of a town, although there is a chill in the break of the waves that was never there in Santa Carla, and the moonlight is pale and sickly, making everything look frosty, even in summer.

 

Edgar is outside, scrutinising the courtyard drenched in black. He’s wearing a loose t-shirt and jeans; his arms are folded, and his expression is one of iron.

 

Sam silent swears, dotting into a dark crevice to shield himself.

 

“I know you’re out there,” he calmly utters, and Sam is reminded of a determined figure silhouetted beside a park bench. “You’re wasting your time. Come out and fight.”

 

Sam twiddles his thumbs.

 

Edgar’s face creases terribly; he waits for a full hour and then hissing in resignation, spins on his heel and enters the trailer.

 

Sam looks for a break in the salt circle.

 

Tonight, it seems he is unlucky.

 

.

.

 

.

 

.

 

The sun is rising, and Sam has never detested it so much.

 

It cuts off his nightly ventures, drags out the emptiness of his existence; separates him from blood and will and flight...from _Edgar_ , and if he just managed to catch him and bring him back, to his small cave, where he could sooth his hair and taste his blood and let him stay, here, in this darkness beside him, it would just be...

 

Edgar misses him. The picture is still as close as ever, propped up on his shelf in clear view, and sometimes, Sam spies it lying on his pillow.

 

A shadow. Sam is chasing a shadow, a shell of a man, a discarded memory. But shit, the shadow has feelings, has memories and yearnings and steel...is _Edgar_ , and never has something seemed so alive to him before. It kills. It just fucking kills.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

_“Got a problem, guys?”_

_He glances occasionally at Alan, who sneers in dislike, but he never once relents his full attention from the sombre looking kid with the tasteless headband._

_“You’ll like this one, Mr Phoenix,” He utters quietly, all serious business, and Sam finds himself repressing a thrill at how he says his temporary nickname. “It could save your life.”_

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

Edgar is patrolling, all prettied up in marine attire, and Sam follows him for the heck of it.

 

Some fledgling punk gets lucky, and has Edgar on his back, teeth bared.

 

“Time to squish the Froggie!”

 

Sam inwardly groans at the horrendous pun, and the man’s ghastly dress sense. But even more so when he sees the prick swipe at Edgar’s chest, splitting skin and drawing blood; Edgar bucks in pain, and Sam snarls.

 

He blurs so fast Edgar has no time to catch his face.

 

Which is good, for now is not the time to reveal himself.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

The badly dressed vampire is now deceased, slumped by his feet, and Sam is on his knees, sucking Edgar’s blood from his gnarled claws.

 

It’s even better then he could ever have imagined. In his blood, he tastes newsprint and sea salt and gasoline, dime store aftershave and rough edges of skin, and god, ** _Edgar..._**

 

It’s merely a hint of sensation, but enough to make his monster shriek for more.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

Sam returns, once more, to Edgar’s abode.

 

He freezes.

 

Alan’s car is parked beside the trailer, just outside the salt circle.

 

_That son of a bitch._

 

Sam creeps in the shadow of the old shed, aware of angry crimson bleeding into his eyes.

 

Alan steps from the dark, and in a soft, tender tone, calls for his brother.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

_“Alan has turned.”_

_Edgar is sitting opposite him. His hands are interlocked in front of him, his head downcast, and there is so much tension gathered in his shoulders; Sam doesn’t know what to do, how to react._

_Sam shuffles closer. He rests his palm on Edgar’s back, and frowns when Edgar presses away, silently turning his face, locking his expression into one of steel._

_“Edgar...”_

_“What?”_

_“Maybe...” Sam taps his fingers lightly across Edgar’s shoulder, and fails to mask the concern in his voice. “This isn’t the best time to push people away, bud.”_

_“Sam...”_

_“It’s cool, bud,” Sam removes his hand. “I shouldn’t have said that. You deal with this any way you want...”_

_“Sam...”_

_Edgar’s voice cracks. He lifts his head to glower blearily at his stricken looking friend._

_“I...I miss my brother.”_

_Sam’s fingers twitch._

_He wants to reach over, pull him into a hug, and it doesn’t matter if it’s awkward or not masculine, it doesn’t matter, because it’s them, and if Edgar would just left down his damn walls..._

_Edgar leans to the side, so that his arm brushes Sam’s, and for a moment, it almost looks like he is resting his head on Sam’s shoulder._

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

“Get out of here, Alan.”

 

Edgar stands just inside his salt circle, glaring at his older brother. He is positioned tall, erect, but Sam spots the wary glimmer in his eyes. He has his fists clenched so tight it’s a miracle he isn’t drawing blood.

 

Alan is smiling. No, actually _smiling._ No smirks, no rotten little sneers; he is smiling, and damn, Sam can see why the bastard is never happy. When he is, it’s just damn terrifying.

 

At least when Edgar used to smile, he was sort of adorable. In a dorky, Rambo kinda way, of course.

 

The smile however, is cruel.

 

“C’mon, brother,” Alan says smoothly. He pats his car door invitingly. “Don’t be so green. So...spoiling of the fun.” He licks his lips slowly, his eyes fastened to Edgar’s neck, and Sam just wants to string him out in the sun. “I thought you said we would never be apart.”

 

“That was before...”

 

“Before what?” Alan is removing his hat; never a good sign. For such a garish accessory, it sure holds a lot of personal levity. The contours of his face thicken and writhe; eyes bulge in swollen, vivid rubies and teeth lengthen and spark in the moonlight. His voice is a rasping chill. “Before this?”

 

Edgar inhales harshly; he stares, unabashed, at this monstrous formation of his brother, and Sam bitterly smirks, leaning casually against the shed. This is hard for Edgar, he can tell. His mind flashes back to the abandoned park; to the darkening edges in Edgar’s face at his own appearance, and Sam feels his lips melt into a grim line.

 

“Edgar...” Alan’s entire posture has relaxed. He smiles again; only this time, it’s tempered with humane gentleness and Sam recoils in disgust. God, the elder Frog is so full of bullshit. “Come here.”

 

His tone is different as well. It possesses a soft, paternal ring that seems to latch into Edgar’s skin. His friend blinks, trying to secure his senses, but Alan calls again...and Sam straightens up, less then amused. He knows this game. This has been one of the vampire skills he has neglected from using, despite the damn allurement of mind fucking potential food, or Edgar.

 

God damn cheater.

 

Edgar is fighting it. He rears up strongly, but his legs are shaking with the battle, and Sam sees the questioning need in the deepening lines of his frown, as Alan is smiling more openly now, and for a brief moment, looks like he could pass for human.

 

“A-Alan...”

 

“Shhhhh...” The older brother holds out a clawed hand. “Come on, now.”

 

Edgar’s eyes are losing focus. Sam stiffens as he goes to place a boot over the circle. Oh, no fucking way in hell, is this...

 

“Easy there, compadre,” Sam jokes, stepping from the shadows, and from the look of Alan, into a potential murder scene. He chuckles, and taps his nose at a now coherent, and wild eyed, Edgar. “Let’s not make any choices we’re going to regret.”

 

“Sam...” Alan has dropped all kind hearted brotherly pretence. Well, at least the creepy as fuck smile is gone. Small mercies.

 

Edgar is looking between the two of them, completely stone faced. His gaze meets Sam’s; who nods in his direction, his smile small yet genuine, and Edgar takes a step back.

 

_“Sam...”_

 

It’s a whisper, but the heaviness clouding it doesn’t pass Sam by. He winks at Edgar, before turning towards Alan, his fangs scraping his bottom lip.

 

“I guess Edgar didn’t realise he had a little stalker,” Alan says coolly, but yeah, he is pissed beyond all recognition. Sam can’t help being incredibly gleeful about that. Alan cocks his chin; smirks, and Sam is aware of his bravado lessening. There is something rather nasty scuttling behind the self satisfied vision of this bastard, and he doesn’t like it. Not. One. Bit.

 

“Okay, Sam,” Alan flares up a cigarette; he exhales webs of cascading smoke. “I’m impressed. I can appreciate resilience.” Edgar is silent behind his friend, who inches around so the youngest Frog is blocked from Alan’s piercing glare. Edgar. Keep Edgar out of this.

 

“You know, Sammy...” Only Michael can call him that. Only _Michael._ “I’m gonna offer you a deal.”

 

“Yeah?” Sam replies dryly. “What’s that, Al?”

 

“Well...” Alan tilts his head, and peers past the dark shape of Sam; to Edgar, who is frozen in place. “I do think sharing is caring, don’t you?”

 

Even Edgar can’t repress a sharp gasp at that.

 

“Hm...” Sam places a hand on his hip, tapping his chin in thought. He furrows his brow in memory. “Alan, remember when we were kids? When you said you’d share the last biscuit with me? Mu m had made them specially. Chocolate and strawberry flavour, very nice.”

 

Alan’s cigarette drops from his mouth.

 

“What?”

 

“You didn’t,” Sam points out cheerfully. He swipes out a claw in warning, shaking his head in nostalgia. “You crammed it into your mouth, pushed me over, and run to your brother. And _you...”_ He motions to Edgar, who is looking as if his world is taking several somersaults. “You didn’t believe me.”

 

Alan groans. Evidently, speaking to Sam is a chore, and he wearily cradles his face in his hands.

 

“Oh no,” Sam fleers, mirth gone. He extends his arms and growls, his thirst thunderous. “Fuck you even _touching_ your brother.”

 

Alan lunges.

 

Sam grits his teeth, bracing himself. This is maybe the noblest thing he will ever do, and damn, it’s so altruistic, so anti dark badass vampire, that it makes him _ache_. But it was Edgar who got him here, Edgar who made him stay, and Edgar who has unconsciously nailed him here...between his batshit insane brother and himself, and Sam wonders offhand...because he has never used this word, not once, not even when the bloodlust was booming through his soul and wrestling his will power, or he heard the pound of Edgar’s fist striking his gravestone, alongside the hurried outbursts of breath that may or may not have been reluctant, held back sobs, or when he had observed the lack of tension eased into his friend’s face via the outlet of sleep, and he had to flee and sink his fangs into some unfortunate fucker, and been forced to pretend he feels chestnut hair and toughened skin beneath his fingers..

 

Maybe this is what love is.

 

“Sam!” A calloused hand grips the back of his collar. “ _You’re invited in!”_

 

He’s reeled back, over and into the circle.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

Inside the trailer, all is quiet.

 

The crosses don’t scald his flesh. The holy water doesn’t burn. The garlic is as harmless as an herb shop.

 

Sam is stretched out on the loveseat, his boots on Edgar’s pillows, and he is grinning like an idiot.

 

Edgar washes his hands in the sink, his back turned to the vampire. He hasn’t said anything, not yet, and occasionally, he sneaks a glance at Sam, maybe to see if he is real, and each time, his old friend waggles his eyebrows or winks at this attention.

 

Sam flops on his stomach, and beams at the opposite picture. Maybe he can convince Edgar to cut out the third wheel, but that’ll come later.

 

“I was quite the looker, wasn’t I?”

 

“I can’t believe...” Edgar grunts, throwing a dishcloth into the sink. “I must be crazy. Fucking crazy.”

 

“We-ell...” Sam snaps up his head, smiling sweetly. “You’ve invited me in now, bud. I’m officially part of the premises.”

 

“You’re a vampire.”

 

“And your friend,” Sam adds, coyly resting his chin on his knuckles. Edgar faces him fully; he goes to bleat out some suck monkey come back, but his eyes flick to the picture, then back to Sam, and his friend observes the fall in his expression.

 

He growls deep in his throat; drops down beside Sam, sending the springs rattling, and there is no fear, no distrust, in his body language. Merely a vague tightness in his shoulders, but even that lessens as he sighs, rubbing his brow.

 

“I knew you missed me,” Sam needles softly, playfully poking Edgar in the back. “I saw it. Every. Single. Night.”

 

Edgar warily eyes him.

 

“Really?”

 

Sam’s grin widens.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Hm.” Edgar chews over his remark. “Creepy.”

 

Sam chuckles. He hits his head back down on the loveseat, tapping his fingers merrily on his chest.

 

“Earlier...” Darkness ebbs in Edgar’s voice. “In the park...”

 

“I vamped out,” Sam says plainly. “I wasn’t going to kill you. I never would. You over reacted.”

 

“You almost broke my arm, Sam. I did take you seriously.”

 

“And yet you said...” Sam props himself up, hands beneath his head, and smirks at Edgar. “That I could never take you.”

 

Edgar stares at him then, really _stares._ He leans dangerously forward, the mattress creaking beneath his palm, and scrutinises the grin plastered on Sam’s face; his eyes gradually scan the crook of his mouth, the laughter in the baby blue of Sam’s irises. He shifts uncomfortably, reaching forward to ghost Sam’s skin, but he relents, right at the last moment.

 

“Is it...” His whisper is tight with anxiety, and a light, despairing hope. “It can’t be...I know monsters are good at hiding their true selves.” Edgar’s lip curls. He backs away, still the intrepid hunter, and glowers once more at the accursed picture.

 

“Maybe I’m a little too good,” Sam is aware his voice has softened. “And yeah, I feed on people, Edgar. Not cats or strays. I went the full 360.”

 

The silence soaks the air.

 

“But, Edgar...” All gaiety drains from Sam. “When I look at you, I tend to remember.” He bows his head, cool breath rolling on the curve of Edgar’s ear. “And I don’t want to forget.”

 

“This is wrong.”

 

“Eh,” Sam can’t quite fight a shadow of smile. “It was you who hoiked me back, not the other way round.”

 

Like always, Edgar doesn’t balk from the presence of Sam, even this dangerously close. Edgar can’t see Sam as a killer...such a fatal flaw, but for now, it works perfectly in his favour.

 

“I’m a hypocrite,” Sam rolls his eyes as Edgar bangs his head on the ledge. “A fucking...”

 

“Too late now, bud,” Sam swings his legs round, lying them across Edgar’s lap. A steady claw clamps on his head; head banging will draw blood, and when Sam is happy, he tends to get reckless. “You’ve invited me in, and I promise ya, Eddie...Sammy isn’t going anywhere.”

 

“I...” Looking at the picture is becoming too painful, and Edgar can’t quite tip Sam’s legs off his lap. “The only reason I did that, bloodsucker, was because Alan...”

 

“And I proved my loyalty,” Sam closes his eyes, working at making his legs dead weight. “And therefore, that means something, right?”

 

Edgar is silent again.

 

Sam cracks open an eyelid.

 

“Right?”

 

Edgar is staring at him again, long and hard, and his lip trembles, just for a millisecond, and Sam raises an eyebrow.

 

“Edgar...?”

 

“It is you, right?”

 

Sam remembers the slippery caress of blue satin, the dense weight of earth, the slow, heavy breaths of his only friend, the crumpled remains of a Batman no 14, and...

 

Edgar’s blood, throbbing beats, bloated cells skidding in thick artery; so beautiful, fragile, deadly to his thirsty condition, and Edgar, who glances at him now, Edgar, who so desperately wants to _believe..._

“Yeah,” He smiles, rather sadly, at Edgar. “It is me, bud.”

 

Edgar nods stoically, getting to his feet; always so stable, so steady. He never changes. Impulsive bastard; he doesn’t know what he has let himself in for. He doesn’t fully understand yet, maybe because it is Sam’s guise...and yeah, it is Sam, and there are parts Emerson, but parts monster.

 

It is all _him._ The stitching of his strange, new half existence, and when the time is right, Edgar will have to face those as well.

 

“I have blackout curtains in the back room,” he mumbles, and slips into the small enclosure at the back of his trailer to secure Sam’s sleeping conditions. And this is wrong, so very wrong, for Edgar is a hunter, and Sam is a creature of night, but Edgar has been alone so very long...

 

Sam retracts his budding fangs into the sanctuary of his now human gums.

 

Later, he can deal with everything else, but right now, he has Edgar and that...that is more then something.

 

Edgar reappears, knocking garlic out of the way and pauses, his gaze fixated on the man lounging on his loveseat; not quite sure if he can return Sam’s smile.

 

“Ah, bud,” Sam deftly utters. “I think we’re stuck with each other.”


End file.
